Loneliness and desire always lead people to misunderstand love.

Back then, I truly thought you loved me, but I was wrong.
When we lie on the same bed with nothing on, what are you thinking?
Are you feeling the joy of this moment, or thinking about how we will have a future?
Physical pleasure and indulgence seem to make us forget everything, gasping and surrendering, how can I be sure we are in love?
Relying on fleeting intimacy, or kisses tangled in hair without sweat, or faces filled with desire—such shallow love can end ambiguously at any time.
Do you really love me or love every moment of our downfall? Neither.
You actually don't love me at all. It took me a long time to accept that I am unloved and that I have mistaken the wrong person.
So I hate insincerity, because it seems like I am the only one not cherished.
I am often unhappy, so I pretend to be very happy.
But am I really happy? I don't know.
I know love, because it is heavy and distinct.
A few years ago, my view on love was that I needed to be loved.
I wouldn't want to change for anyone.
I thought I wouldn't change, until I met you, my dear.
I changed many of my flaws for you.
At that time, you asked me what I wanted.
I cried and said, I want to be loved.
I want you to love me.
You silently replied that we should talk properly.
But you never really loved me.
You said you didn't want to love anyone anymore.
You're so tired, but unfortunately, loving you makes me even more exhausted.
I always say I love you, and that's enough, but human desires are endless.
I want to be loved.
I want your love.
I don't just want to love you, but unfortunately, you don't love me.
If I were a heartless person, I wouldn't be the one unable to sleep at dawn.
You always say people change.
I can't understand why you suddenly changed.
Just looking at the words in the chat window makes me want to cry,
the restrained personality and long-standing thoughts.
It seems I was born with the ability to love, but you are like a mischievous child constantly hurting me.
Why? I am obviously the one who loves you the most.
I always dream of you late at night, even knowing it's just a dream,
but I still hope those dreams last a little longer, longer.
I keep deceiving myself, always thinking maybe you still have a little love for me,
even just a little. But I have never been loved.
Forget it, I choose to remain silent.
Perhaps happiness has never belonged to me.
Hate is a product of love.
I always say I hate you, only to realize I love you so painfully.
Hating and loving you, it’s just that you don’t love me enough.
If sighing could bring happiness, then I would sigh first.
Sigh.